


Sensory Input

by Buttons15



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8613046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttons15/pseuds/Buttons15
Summary: Mercy finds herself a challenge in bringing Widowmaker's body back to proper balance. Widowmaker finds herself a challenge in making the doctor see her as something more than a biological puzzle.(A long essay on Widowmaker's biology disguised as a MercyMaker story)





	1. Gustation

For someone who took great pride in remaining unseen, Widowmaker got surprisingly irked at not being stared at. It wasn’t getting ambushed, shot, captured and forcefully hospitalized which annoyed her the most, it wasn’t even how exposed she was, chest bare on her open hospital gown. No, what ticked her off the most was how her attending doctor, none less than the great Angela Ziegler herself, blatantly refused to _look_.

She felt those warm, warm hands rub circles on the skin of her nape, then under the jawbone and chin, moving to the neck and then collarbones, searching for whatever doctors searched for – and all the while, the blonde’s eyes were closed, her expression serious and absolutely impassive. Widowmaker briefly considered her odds of strangling the woman and making a run for it right then and there, but decided against it because she was just _so insulted._

“Lie down for me, _bitte_ ,” the doctor requested, and if she noticed the sniper’s affronted expression, she didn’t show.

Widowmaker did as she was told, and when the cool stethoscope was pressed against her neck and then over her chest, right under her breast, she peeked up to see Ziegler’s eyes staring fixedly at a spot on the wall, brows furrowed in concentration.

 _Maybe she’s just straight,_ the French thought, but she knew for a fact that wasn’t true because Sombra, always Sombra, had made a point of digging up every Overwatch member’s embarrassing teenage pictures and Ziegler was absolutely _not straight_ in those.

 _Pansexual, more like_ , she thought bitterly as the doctor moved to the side to listen to her abdomen. The blonde paused and bit her bottom lip, deep in thought, then placed the stethoscope back around her neck and pressed her open palm lightly over Widow’s bare skin. She did so methodically, starting from the hip and moving up until she’d left warm handprints over the patient’s entire belly.

And still she wouldn’t look.

_Maybe she just isn’t into blue._

Widowmaker had no doubts she was an attractive woman, and she got gradually more and more offended.

“Breathe in,” the blonde said, pushing her hands deep into the sniper’s abdomen when she did so. They repeated that process four or five more times, and then she was told to put her pajama-uniform thing back on and the doctor actually gave her back to the French whilst she changed. Angela did not take a single peek – Widowmaker watched closely for it.

She had to admit her _femme_ persona was completely bewildered at the doctor’s stunning professionalism.

“That’s it for today,” the blonde chirped, taking notes at a sheet of paper. “Thank you once again for the collaboration –”

“How do I look?” Widowmaker snapped.

Angela seemed surprised at her interest, tilting her head. “Mmh, to be fair, I cannot know, not yet.” She pocketed her pen and looked the French in the eyes. “It’s your first physical examination, so I have nothing to compare this data to. Even in people without your…body peculiarities, it’s not proper to make conclusions without a good notion of one’s individual values.” She paused, thoughtful, and pressed her lips in a thin line. “Unless you have any symptoms you’d like me to investigate? Anything hurting, or –”

“There’s nothing,” she interrupted. _Just a bruised ego._

The doctor blinked. “Well then… I’ll be on my way. If you need anything – ”

“I know, I know!” She hissed, all but kicking the woman out.

 

* * *

 

 

The doctor came every three days to take more measures; beyond that, Widowmaker was left alone. Though she had no contact with the outer world, they still left her books as a means of entertainment. Her captivity gave her plenty of time to think, and so think she did. She wondered at first when and how Talon would come for her, because surely they would. They were not kind to failures, and she wondered whether they’d choose to have her back or have her dead.

When after a month they did not strike, she thought surely something must have happened. After two months, she was absolutely sure Gabriel and Sombra were either captured or no longer alive. After three months, she leaned heavily towards the second option. She expected something from that knowledge – perhaps anger, perhaps grief – and was disappointed but not surprised when there was nothing but the same gnawing emptiness.

She wanted to ask the doctor about them but didn’t quite have the heart to. After four months, she decided it didn’t matter. After five, she changed her mind and came to the conclusion that since she was stuck there, she might as well start making questions.

“What are you even looking for?” she muttered while Ziegler’s fingers searched her scalp and neck.

“Swollen lymph nodes,” the blonde replied, eyes closed, hands moving in what had become a familiar pattern. “Those are…mmh, signs of infection.”

“Right,” Widowmaker replied, lying down on her back without having to be asked. “So, whatever happened to Reaper and Sombra?”

“They’re not coming, if that’s what worries you,” Angela murmured, placing the stethoscope on her chest.

“So, dead?” she queried casually, and the doctor winced, yanking the cool metal tool back on reflex.

“ _Scheiße!_ ” Ziegler hissed, then exhaled slowly. “Pardon me. If you talk while I have the stethoscope on you, it comes off _sehr laut._ ” She cleared her throat. “Mmm no, not dead, not as far as I know.”

Out of politeness, Amélie waited for the other to finish listening to her heart sounds before trying to sate her curiosity. “You seem quite sure Talon won’t show up, though.”

There was one long moment of silence in which Angela bore those blue eyes deep into Widowmaker’s amber ones, and then the blonde broke eye contact and bit her bottom lip.

“You’ve been…discharged.”

The idea was so bizarre, the sniper couldn’t hold back the laughter. “Oh _ma chérie,_ there’s no such thing as that – unless you mean death…maybe.”

“We’ve come to… an agreement. Sombra wiped you from their records,” the blonde stated, her tone flat. “Permanently, she guaranteed. Not a trace of you left. How she did so is far beyond me.”

Widowmaker sat up immediately. “What?!”

“It took a lot of…negotiating. A lot of convincing. She was rather skeptical at first, but we have…surprisingly a lot of common ground.” Angela rubbed her own arms, absently hugging herself. “We both know what it’s like to work for organizations we don’t entirely approve of, in order to reach a bigger goal. And we are both…flexible with rules.”

The French was honestly too befuddled to elaborate on her thoughts.

“What – how – _why?_ ”

The doctor looked away. “We had you. She knew Talon would either have you executed or horribly penalized. We worked together in this. I threw my weight around so that Overwatch wouldn’t have your head either, and Sombra cares for you enough to recognize you’d be better in my care.”

“ _Why?_ ” she repeated, still stunned.

Angela shrugged. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Because your life is worth it, and if there’s anyone in the world qualified to tackle the challenge of making it better, it’s me.”

_What a fucking self-esteem._

“It’s so preposterous to assume I _want_ your aid – you didn’t even bother to ask – and I am doing _just fine_ , thank you – ”  she hissed, then paused, bewildered. “Where do you even know Sombra from anyway?”

The blonde muttered something inaudible. Widowmaker motioned for her to repeat it.

“ _League of Legends_ ,” Angela mumbled. “We play _League of Legends_ together sometimes.”

 

* * *

 

‘Angry’ didn’t quite cover what Widowmaker had been feeling. On the back of her mind the reasonable part of her recognized that out of her options, she had indeed been granted the best possible outcome. Still, it infuriated her that Sombra and the doctor had downright schemed behind her back and decided her fate without consulting her.

To top it all off, Ziegler was impossible to take anger out on. She tried being cold, she tried being rude, she even tried being uncooperative; to all that, the medic would respond with never-ending patience. It was rather unsatisfying to rage at someone who refused to rage back. She desperately wanted to punch that _gentle and fucking adorable_ face, and what stopped her wasn’t fear of retaliation but rather the certainty that Angela’s first concern would be over the integrity of the knuckles that hit her.

“This is the vagus nerve,” the blonde said one day after one of her routine visits, pointing to a hologram hovering over the table. “And here is where it reaches the heart,” she continued, zooming into the picture.

Widowmaker didn’t answer, watching the image with cool indifference. After a moment of silence, Angela resumed speaking.

“What the vagus does is slow the heartbeat down, and here, it seems, is where Talon acted on your physiology. Hyper stimulating it drastically dropped your heart rate, giving you the cyanotic aspect,” the doctor flicked her wrist and more images came up, this time blood test results. “Of course, your body took measures to adapt to the constant oxygen low. Your levels of 2,3-DPG are drastically high, your cells are under constant stress and how they made your enzymes remain stable in a temperature so under their ideal is beyond me.”

She tilted her head, now genuinely interested. Talon had always kept her in the dark about what they did to her, and she figured the more she knew about her own body, the better.

“Some organs suffer more from it, mainly those which require lots of irrigation. The kidneys, the intestines. The brain too, but that circulation was preserved.”  The blonde paused. “If we cut the vagus – a vagotomy, we call it – your heart will resume sinoatrial rate – that’s about sixty to seventy beats per minute, as opposed to your average twenty. The removal would be temporary – after a period of adaptation, we would then regrow the nerve from its roots, so that normal responsivity can be achieved.”

It took the sniper a moment to understand what the other was proposing. “Sounds complex. And terribly risky.”

Angela sighed. “It is. Still, with your authorization, I would like to attempt the procedure.”

Widowmaker arched a single eyebrow at the other. “Well, isn’t this a surprise. Gabriel would be overjoyed to know that you now actually ask for permission before experimenting on people.”

She knew she had hit a nerve when the doctor visibly flinched. She licked her lips in satisfaction, grinning at this newfound knowledge of a weakness.

“I’ve made…mistakes,” Ziegler exhaled. “Mistakes I wouldn’t like to repeat. I won’t do anything you refuse.” She bit her bottom lip. “Though I do believe you would greatly benefit from the surgery.”

“Not as much as you would, I bet,” she replied venomously. “Will you write an article on it later? How much status has my capture earned you among the, what do you call yourselves,” she tapped a finger to her chin absently, “ _Scientific community?_ ”

The blonde grit her teeth. “I haven’t. Written anything about you. I haven’t –” she cut herself short, sighing, then fished something from her pocket – a pen needle. Rolling it between her thumb and forefingers, she stared at the object for a couple seconds, then placed it down the table.

Widowmaker’s eyes flicked over the label.

_D10W - 10% dextrose-water solution._

Her afternoon meal. Without turning to face the doctor, she grabbed the injection and pressed it against the back of her hand, pushing the release button. There was no pain when the needle pricked her skin, though she did feel a vague burning as the solution flowed into her veins. When she looked back at Angela, the woman was hugging herself, palms rubbing absently over her own forearms.

“You could eat again,” the blonde whispered. “Actual food, instead of just… glucose shots to the vein. You could drink again – more than controlled amounts of water. You could have – a tea. Hot chocolate. Beer. So many things.” She picked up the discarded needle and slid it back into the pocket of her lab coat.

_Eat._

The thought seemed so alien she had trouble wrapping her mind around it. When was it she last ate? She couldn’t remember. Surely not on this life, and she could recall very little from back when she was just Amélie. She couldn’t even remember what _taste_ felt like, save for the occasional tang of her own blood.

She didn’t want to give Angela the satisfaction of a ‘yes’, but then again, Widowmaker was never one to deny herself any pleasures either, and she saw people delighted about eating all the time. There had to be _something_ to it, she decided.

“Think about it,” the doctor said after it became clear she would get no answers.

And think about it she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is literally less of a story and more of an essay; the one reason I wrote this is because I really wanted to explore Widowmaker's altered biology, what they could have done and how could it be undone. 
> 
> no, really, be prepared for lots of indulgent scientific blabbering, angsty, painful and excessively detailed recovering proccedures...and the occasional specks of romance


	2. Olfaction

Widowmaker woke up to her heartbeat hammering in her chest, blood pumping so hard her fingertips throbbed.  When she opened her eyes, white flecks danced over blurry vision.

 _I’m going to die_ , she thought vaguely, and somehow that seemed to speed up her pulse even more.

She could feel the organ inside her chest struggle and it _hurt_. Rolling so she laid sideways, she winced at the lights that only seemed to increase her hammering headache. Her stomach twitched and turned, and she was positive the only reason she wasn’t throwing up was that she hadn’t eaten anything in over a decade.

 “Jesus fucking Christ – _Scheiβe –”_ over the loud ringing in her ears, she could only barely hear a feminine voice curse. There was a distinct burn as liquid started flowing into her body from an achy spot on her arm, and though she couldn’t think straight, something long broken inside her begged ‘ _not again_ ’.

Her eyes were having a hard time focusing on anything, yet through the blur her brain still registered fragmented bits of information. Irrelevant things that would usually pass her by now twisted and grew on her mind, and she duly noted that someone stood in front of her, someone whose clothes were a weird blue-green, contrasting sharply with the  faded pastel-orange walls and the –

hair peeking out from under a surgical cap 

**power wires running over the walls**

eyes staring at her

wooden window frames and someone had left her a bunch of flowers

was-that-her-blood?

It _was_ her  blood, flowing back from an intravenous access attached to the inner side of her elbow. She looked away from it, assaulted by the _CREAK CREAKCREAK_ when her IV bag pole was moved to the side so that she could be looked at more closely. A hand touched her cheek, and the contact sent ~~apulseofshock~~ down her spine.

Amélie slammed her eyes shut.

As soon as **darkness** embraced her, she knew she’d made a mistake. Yet by then she could no longer open them, because the haze which clouded her mind grew denser and like a child being dragged away by the waves, she was pulled further and further from her own body until the pain and the queasiness were gone.

It didn’t feel like a release – it never had. Rather, she felt dangerously adrift, as if watching from above when the doctor pressed warm fingers – _whose fingers? –_ against her neck – _whose neck?  –_ to feel her pulse – _whose pulse whose heartbeat whose –_

Their fingers pulled away from their skin and for one nauseating moment the French saw herself through another’s eyes, lying down on clean white sheets, covered in sweat and possibly her own bile, simultaneously **SHAKING SHAKINGSHAKING** and crying and _SCREAMING_.

Widowmaker had always feared not being able to return to her own vessel. When she finally reattached to her body, her breathing was quick and short, and though her headache had subsided, she was still acutely aware of the uncomfortable, too quick rhythm of her heartbeat.

She opened her eyes, glad to find her senses had returned to normal and the world no longer seemed to fall apart.

“Amélie,” Angela said, ever so gentle, tucking strands of black hair away from the sniper’s face. “I’m sorry about that. Your pressure peaked really abruptly, but I’ve infused you with beta-blockers that should relieve the negative symptoms. How do you feel?”

Did she trust herself with an answer?

She blinked and flexed her fingers, testing control. The flow of blood made them itch and throb. “I feel like shit,” she replied.

 _I can always trust myself with that answer_.

The blonde’s lips quirked to the smallest of smiles, and she gave the French a genuine apologetic look. “The body doesn’t take kindly to sudden pressure peaks. I didn’t expect you’d react so strongly to such a small amount of extra water. Still, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

She grunted something unintelligible, looking outside to beautiful blue skies and a sunny day. On the wooden frame, she spotted something – a vase of flowers, shriveled and dry. The object gave her pause.

“Ziegler,” she called as the doctor made her way to leave. The woman stopped on her tracks, turning back, and Widowmaker couldn’t help but notice that the white coat she wore was way too short and its nametag actually read “ _Mei-ling_ ”.

_White coat?_

The blonde tilted her head. “Yes? Something I can help you with?”

She cleared her throat and propped herself up on her elbows. “How long has it been since the surgery?”

Angela frowned at her question. “It’s the fifth day now. You’ve been responding well, way beyond even my best expectations. Why?”

_Five days._

Arms going numb, she fell back into the pillow, staring blankly at the outdoors and trying to process that bit of information. “It’s just hard to keep track of time in here,” the half-assed excuse came with ease. “The same every day even though I can see the sun.”

_When was I even moved to a room with a window anyway?_

Fortunately, Angela was sympathetic to her plight and did not further question her. Unfortunately, the blonde had her own ideas on how to solve that. “About that, I’ve been thinking, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to have you moved to my infirmary. This isolation is doing you no good and I’ve already convinced the team that you’re not going to run off.” She pointed to the window with her thumb.

Widowmaker did mind, and the idea of sharing a room with bitching, wounded Overwatch members was not appealing in the least. Still, having the doctor around was compelling, particularly because her condition needed monitoring and she did like having immediate attention.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “Perhaps then you won’t take so long to stop the shitstorm you’ve brewed in my body.”

The blonde sighed and pressed her lips together in a thin line. The French noticed for the first time that the other had dark rings under her eyes. “Doing my best here, Amélie. Getting your blood pressure to rise slowly is a tricky job, but your body needs time to get used to it. I’ll see to it that you’re moved as soon as possible. Anything else?”

She turned away, facing the wall, the IV access on her arm reacting to the movement with a sharp ache. “That will be all.”

She didn’t pay attention to the sound of the door being opened and closed behind her.

All she could hear was her heart beat and beat and beat.

* * *

 

“So you’re giving me this thing that will make me pee more,” Widowmaker began, staring at the pill on her palm. “To lower my blood pressure.”

“Yes,” Angela nodded.

“My blood pressure, which is high because my heart is beating faster and I’m drinking more water,” she continued.

“Yes.”

“Have you considered just… giving me less water?” the sniper pointed out, arching an eyebrow.

“Out of question,” the doctor muttered without taking her eyes off her computer. “I’m not getting your kidneys overworked.”

“Because getting my heart overworked is just so much better,” she snapped back, swallowing down the pill without water.

“Your heart is not overworked,” the blonde hissed, halting her typing for a second. “I saw you dry-swallow that pill. That can get you throat cancer – just drink the water already, _verdammnt._ ”

Widowmaker smiled. One of the unexpected advantages of being moved to the infirmary was that she got to whine and get the doctor flustered, all day, every day. She emptied her cup with three long gulps and placed it on the tray next to where she’d been sleeping.

“How’s my pressure, again?” she queried, swinging her legs from up the bed.

“Sixty-two systolic, forty-four diastolic,” Angela replied absently, shuffling through papers.

In practical terms, Amélie had absolutely no idea what that meant. She just liked the promptness in which the doctor volunteered information.

“And what’s the target?”

“Ideally, one hundred and twenty systolic and eighty diastolic, but I’m calling it stabilized when we get a ninety-sixty.” Angela sipped on a mug of coffee and scribbled something down.

“…what’s a ‘systolic’?”

Ziegler paused, lifted her eyes from piled up pages of work and gave her one long, scrutinizing look, as if to check she was serious. Widowmaker gave the other her best sheepish smile, and Angela sighed.

“Your heart beats in a cycle,” the woman explained, raising an open palm in the air. “When it beats,” she closed her hand into a fist, “That’s a systole. When it relaxes,” she opened her hand, “That’s a diastole. You get two different pressure numbers for each moment – a higher one for the systole, and then a lower one for the diastole.”

“Oh,” the sniper let a sly grin cross her face. “I knew that.”

Angela frowned. “Then why did you –”

Amélie shrugged. “Just checking if you knew.”

There was a moment of silence in which Angela visibly gaped. “You were checking if I knew –” the woman cut herself short and let out her breath in one long exhale, visibly gritting her teeth. “Anything else I might help you with?”

“Nothing right now,” Widowmaker replied, feeling smug.

The doctor looked as if she might say something, but then her holographic desk beeped and she grinned in a way that was a little bit evil.

“Looks like we’re going to have company,” she announced, tapping a switch. The door slid open and an Asian girl no older than twenty limped in, hopping in one foot. “Good day, miss Song. How may I help you?”

The girl halted in her tracks and gave the room one long look, stopping briefly to stare at the sniper and shamelessly give her an once over. “Twisted my ankle on a training drill with Aleks and ‘Reeha.”

The doctor was up in a swift movement, lending a shoulder to guide the girl to the bed next to the sniper’s. The French stretched her neck to take a peek, but the woman was blocking the way. The examination did not last longer than thirty seconds.

“It’s just a sprain, so there’s not much to worry about,” the blonde said, walking towards the room dispenser and grabbing a pack of ice. “Still…I’d like to keep you under observation for the rest of the day.”

_What?_

The blonde gave Widowmaker a blatant look of mischief. Song tilted her head, scowling. “Wait, why?”

“Just to make sure you won’t exert yourself again,” Mercy handed her the ice and the girl pressed it to the swollen ankle. “Doctor’s orders. Oh, lookie there,” the woman flicked her eyes over her wrist, where a smartwatch was strapped. “Seems like my immediate attention is required elsewhere. Remember to ice it for no longer than twenty minutes,” she blurted, all but dancing away to the door. “Amélie, page me if you need anything. Hana, watch over her for a little, will you? I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

She was off the door faster than Widowmaker could protest, and for a couple seconds, she and her company stood quiet, seizing one another up. And then the girl smirked in a way that made Amélie’s skin crawl.

“So, you’ve been spending an awful lot of time around the doctor, huh?” Sitting in bed, Song leaned forward and wiggled her brows up and down. “How do you like her so far? She’s pretty, ain’t she? I mean wow, if she wasn’t so much older … y’know.”

_Motherfucker._

* * *

 

 

“That’s the last of it,” Angela handed her the blue and white pill and Widowmaker swallowed it down _with water_. “I’m taking you off the diuretics today, and if you keep stable for the rest of the week, I’ll start dosing down the beta-blockers and ACE inhibitors too.”

The doctor repeatedly squeezed the inflation bulb of her sphygmo, stethoscope bell pressed against Widowmaker’s inner elbow. The cuff inflated around the sniper’s arm and then was slowly emptied.

“Ninety-four, sixty-three,” the blonde hummed, satisfied, placing the stethoscope around her neck. “Are you still feeling palpitations?”

Amélie pressed her hand against her chest, feeling the steady thumping of her heart. Sometimes it still woke her up at night, but mostly she’d gotten used to the new rhythm. Lifting up her palm, she stared at her fingertips – they were pale, ghostly white, yet no longer blue.

She had yet to look herself in the mirror. She wasn’t really in a hurry to do it.

“No,” she answered after a moment. “No headaches or nausea either.”

Angela flicked through a couple papers on her clipboard. “Your renal function tests are looking good, too,” she smiled. “Creatinine clearance and urea are all within expected values for your particular peculiarities. As soon as you’re off propranolol and captopril, I think we can lift the volume restriction on your drinks.”

“Yay,” she answered dryly. “Like an open-bar party. Except, you know, open-water.”

“Isn’t that exciting!” the other quipped back, sliding open the saline solution so that the French’s daily nutrition could flow in. “There’s something else...” she trailed off.

“Yes?”

“When you got here, I took blood samples and ran them through with Athena to check for anything Talon might be giving you. Since then, I’ve been repeating that formula to keep you alive.”

“The sugar shots,” Widowmaker shrugged.

“It’s not just sugar, that’s the thing,” Mercy admitted, leaning against the wall. “There are…other drugs. You’re on metformin, for instance – and that’s to increase your body’s sensibility to glucose. You’re on a steady dose of pantoprazole, probably to avoid duodenal ulcers…” she paused. “And you’re taking things…for your mind. For your brain. Mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics… I’d like to give those a closer look, eventually.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that information, so she shoved it to a neat little drawer in her mind and focused on the immediate future, moving on to the question most pressing.

“Huh…So when do I get to eat?”

Angela licked her lips absently. “I’d like to start off slow. Olfactory stimuli only, at first, to see how your digestive system will react. And then the introduction of simple carbohydrates…”

“So basically you’ll start bringing burgers into the room, but refuse to let me eat them.”

The doctor grinned. “Pretty much, yes.”

“I’m quite sure that’s considered torture somewhere in the world,” she muttered. “Isn’t that banned by the Geneva conventions?”

“Serves you right, what with how you’ve been a pain,” the doctor snapped back, though her tone lacked bite.

“And there, the good doctor shows her little claws,” Widowmaker grinned.

The blonde opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the buzzing of the door. She flicked her hand in the air and the lights above the infirmary wall turned green, allowing the door to slide open. Someone poked her head in, and Amélie recognized the small figure of the annoying British who had given her so much trouble in the past.

“Cheers, luvs,” the little one greeted, lifting a brown paper bag. The smell that came from it was absolutely intoxicating. “Brought your lunch, doc.”

“And we’re starting today, it seems,” Angela teased, reaching out to grab her meal.

From her spot on her fancy chair, feet propped up on the table, slice of pizza in hands – _and shouldn’t doctors eat salad for lunch or something –_ the woman _winked._

“Way to go, Hyde,” she hissed when her nostrils were assaulted by the scent of grilled cheese. “Way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a few notes on this for you nerds:
> 
> \- Widowmaker begins with an hypertensive crisis: headache, nausea, ear buzzing. 
> 
> \- What this evolves into, however, is a complex mix of dissociation and PTSD crisis. She starts off with a sensory overload that is very characteristic in both autism and post-traumatic stress. You know that war veteran who goes nuts at hearing the new year's fireworks? That's the idea.
> 
> \- Once the sensory overload is installed, she then proceeds into plain dissociative state. The detachment begins with her own body and grows until she can't really tell self from non-self and reality from imagination. That she 'loses' five days in that state is an evidence of how severely cut off from the world she becomes.
> 
> \- If curiosity strikes and you go off to research this, you'll learn that severe Dissociative Identity Disorder is often associated with "multiple personalities". That is not, however, the subtype I picture Widowmaker would develop. Rather, I'm working with a depersonalization disorder here.
> 
> \- Making the words colorful was so goddamn hard I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT
> 
> \- Beta-blockers, of which propranolol is a member, are a group of drugs that act by blocking adrenaline and her cousin noradrenaline; what this translates into is a heart beating slower and with less force, thus lowering the blood pressure.
> 
> \- Diuretics on the other hand work by making the kidneys expel more water, lowering the volume of blood and consequently, the pressure.
> 
> \- ACE inhibitors, of which captopril is a member, are also drugs prescribed for hypertension. They work in a complex, pain in the ass metabolic pathway that messes with hormones.
> 
> \- It is not usual that a patient would simultaneously take three different classes of drugs to lower blood pressure, but then again, it is not usual that they'd need it so low either. 
> 
> \- Metformin works by making your body more sensitive to insulin, which in turn makes sugar go into the cells easier. The reason widowmaker would take this is because her body is in a state of constant low oxygen, and that means the cells are really inefficient at making energy, therefore needing more glucose. 
> 
> \- Pantoprazole makes your stomach less acidic, which would be protective for widowmaker because she doesn't eat anything.
> 
> \- Honestly everything about her body is extremely unstable and has to be artificially balanced.
> 
> And on that happy note, hope you enjoyed this!


	3. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x [ Raindrop ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OFHXmiZP38)  
> x [ Moonlight Sonata ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU)  
> x [ Toccata and Fugue ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ho9rZjlsyYY)  
> x [ Air on the G string ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPrKqbctx8U)  
> x [ Nocturne Opus 9, no 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtIW2r1EalM)  
> x [ Prelude in C Sharp Minor ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXQCPAR0EHo)  
> x [ Spring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-dYNttdgl0)

_Her hands don’t feel warm today._

The moment the thought crossed her mind, Amélie knew it wasn’t precisely right. The doctor’s hands hadn’t felt warm against her skin for a long time now – days, weeks even. Still, the realization struck her like a brick, and when Mercy brushed her fingers under the sniper’s chin to feel for lymph nodes, she couldn’t help but flinch.

She prayed to all gods above and below for the doctor not to notice it.

Naturally, Angela did.

“Something wrong?”

She considered a thousand snarky, aggressive remarks. Yet this time, curiosity got the best of her, so she went with the truth instead.

“Things feel…different. To the touch.” She paused, tried to put it into words, failed. On impulse, she extended her hand and ran her fingers through fine blonde hair. Her skin tingled. “Textures. Shapes.”

“Hhmnhm,” the blonde let out a strangled grunt, and Amelie thought she saw the other’s cheeks tinge a slight shade of pink.

It crossed her mind right then that her gesture might have been inappropriate.

_I should do it more often._

“ – Nerve endings,” the doctor cleared her throat. “They don’t work too well in the cold. Now that your temperature has risen in the extremities, you should be able to feel more tactile impulses. Pain, too. A lot of your lack of pain came from that.”

Her hand was still where she’d left it. She made a point to brush a finger against the Swiss’ earlobe when she pulled it back. “Oh.”

Angela squinted at her, frowning, and then resumed her work as if nothing had happened.

“The cold makes your cell metabolism slower, and it changes protein shapes to boot. Because of that, transmission of the neuronal signals is overall harder,” she babbled on, and the sniper tuned her off, focusing instead on the new sensations as the doctor’s touch ghosted over her.

“… and we’re done,” Mercy stepped away and moved to the sink. She always washed her hands before and after examining anyone; Amelie was unsure whether the other was very strict with her protocols or just very paranoid about germs.

She watched the doctor dry herself with paper towels, pick up a clipboard, then turn to her. “I’d like to talk to you about some things today. How do you feel about that?”

Truth be told, Amelie hated it. ‘I want to talk about some things’ was a sentence always followed by change, and usually not the pleasant, ‘you are now allowed to eat burgers’ kind, but rather the ‘I’ll adjust your drugs and you’ll feel sick for weeks’ type of change.

And she _still_ wasn’t allowed to eat burgers, too.

_I don’t even like burgers,_ she found herself thinking, going on a tangent. _I miss fine wines, though._

Angela cleared her throat. “Ah, if today is not a good time…”

“There’s no such thing as a good time for bad news,” the French snapped. “Go on then, doctor Frankenstein. What disgraceful experiment have you planned for me today?”

At least one of those things should have been offensive, but she had a feeling the doctor was developing a thick skin for her insults. She used to wince at the sniper’s jabs. This time, she didn’t even blink.

“So,” the blonde flicked her wrist, and a holographic projection materialized on the table. One glimpse at it and Amelie already wanted to take back her words and say that no, today was not a good time, come back again maybe never. “…your brain.”

“My brain,” She sighed.

She gave the hologram a long look. It seemed rather brainy. She took that as a good sign.

“…looks normal to me.”

“It is,” Angela agreed. “Mostly.”

_Wait, what_

“You mean, save for a couple lobotomies here and there,” she prompted.

“No, I mean, almost absolutely normal,” she made a zooming gesture with her thumb and index finger and the image grew larger. “Centrally, on the places responsible for superior mental functions, I can find no sign of morphological modifications. Everything looks just as it should. Here, on the other hand,” she motioned for the projection to move, so that Amelie could see the brain from another angle. On the inside of the hologram, a small spot blinked red. “There has been some… interesting tampering. When was the last time you’ve shown genuine emotion on your face?”

 “I can’t,” she snapped. “You should know that by now. I can’t feel. I can’t smile. I can’t cry. I can fake it, of course,” she proved her point by diligently showing her teeth.

Angela shook her head. “You can’t smile because you’ve had the facial motor nuclei selectively inhibited. Incredibly done, too – their nanosurgeon is very skilled.  Point being, you have a… I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a reverse case of central seven.”

Somehow, Amelie found she was uninterested in hearing the other sing praises about the talent of the person who mutilated her. She gritted her teeth in annoyance. “Joy. Was that supposed to clear something up, doc? You should work on your communication skills.”

The blonde pressed her lips in a thin line and sighed. “There’s something we call it central facial palsy – it happens when people have a stroke. They lose voluntary movement of the face muscles. When requested, they can’t move their lips. But, and here is the interesting bit,” she flicked her finger and two trails appeared on the brain, one blue and one green. “Genuine emotions use another neural pathway entirely. Those people are paralyzed, but jump on them and they’ll look scared. Tell them a good joke and they’ll smile.”

“…and that’s where they messed me up,” she concluded. “On the neurons people with strokes keep.”

“Indeed,” the doctor nodded, closing the hologram. “You can move your face just fine, but emotions won’t show. Whoever did this was…very crafty. And that’s it. That’s the sole alteration found in your CT scan. Your brain is otherwise untouched.”

“Why would they do that?”

Angela crossed her arms. “You know why.”

She did, of course. Amelie had known from the start that none of her modifications were without purpose, and all aimed to aid her in her line of work. The cold body temperature had made her all but invisible to infrared heat scans; the diminished sensations of pain were a guarantee she’d finish her missions, even if wounded. And now this, yet another _enhancement_ to add to the pile.

“I can see the uses of…showing no fear.”  She paused, thinking about it. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth. “Still, that would mean…”

She did not dare finish her line of though. Mercy had no such qualms.

“That while there’s definitely something cutting you off from emotional expression, you _are,_ by all means, entirely capable of feeling.”

“But I don’t.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the absolute truth.

Angela clicked her tongue. “I never said you did. I do believe you are…emotionless. But not for the reasons they made you believe.” She absently bit the tip of her thumb, then took a deep breath and let it out in one long exhalation. “It’s…complicated. A mix of factors I’m not entirely sure about… and out of my scope, as well. Save from the alterations on the facial nuclei, it’s not organically neurological – it’s psychiatric.” She paused. “I don’t have any kind of correction to suggest to the modifying, either. I will keep monitoring your pressure and your diet, but beyond that, I believe you will soon be done with me.”

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

“So basically you can’t fix it? That’s it? That’s all you have to tell me?”

“It’s not that I can’t, it’s that the surgical procedure it would take is not worth the risk,” she placed her clipboard on the desk. “Not when there are other ways. Neuronal plasticity is a wonderful thing, and cognitive therapy would be a better choice of treatment. If you can move your face, you can educate yourself into showing emotions, and you can do that without having to take the risk of going hemiplegic.”

“You’re missing the fucking point!” she took a step ahead and grabbed the doctor by the collar of her lab coat. “I can’t express something that isn’t there. _I can’t fucking feel anything!_ ”

“And I was about to get into that,” Angela hissed, “If you could please unhand me.”

Widowmaker let go. The blonde put her collar back in place. “Thank you for the civility. What I meant to say was, I am a surgeon. Stabilizing your vitals? Piece of cake. But what you’ve shown me – flat affect, anhedonia, alexythimia… those are way out of my league to treat. Even I cannot know all of medicine, and a psychiatrist –”

“No.”

The other stopped mid-sentence, gaped for a moment, closed her mouth.

“I’m not seeing another doctor,” Amelie blurted before Mercy could say anything. “I despise… _your kind_. You fix me or you let me go, but there’s not a fucking chance I’ll tolerate not one but _two_ white coats in my life.”

“…that’s unwise,” Angela said after a moment. “I’m not the person best qualified to help –”

“It won’t be easy for me,” the French snarled. “Why should it be easy for you?”

“You think it’s been easy?!” the doctor slammed a palm on the table. “You know what, _fuck you_ and your ridiculous antics, Amelie. The door has been wide open for months,” giving the sniper her back, she walked to the exit. “Leave, if you will. Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m done.”

She watched the medic go, speechless, and then stared out the door for a good ten seconds before she burst out laughing.

_That’s more like it, cherie._

 

* * *

 

In the end, she did agree to seeing a therapist, mostly because a therapist was not a doctor but a psychologist. Or, in her case, a psychologist in training. She stared at the Brazilian who sat in front of her, looking expectant and eager.

“So, tell me a little about you,” Lucio said, trying to initiate conversation.

She didn’t feel like saying anything, and so she didn’t.

After a couple minutes of silence, he sighed. Amelie almost felt bad for him. She wasn’t purposefully antagonizing him, like she did to Angela. She just really didn’t see the point. He lifted his face, his expression changing to a smile, and she could tell he had an idea.

“Do you like music?”

The former sniper tilted her head. It had been a long time since she last experienced something as trivial. “Mmmh. I used to play the piano.”

Lucio’s smile widened. “Did you? What did you like best?”

Amelie closed her eyes, trying to recall the tunes and their authors. “Bach. Beethoven. Chopin. His opus 28 number 15 was my favorite.”

“The Raindrop,” he correctly identified. “Beautiful and sad. I’ve always felt it is a tune about pain… the long lasting kind.”

Her fingers twitched in the air, pressing imaginary keys before she could stop herself.  “D flat, C sharp, and then back to D flat, persistently. They never struck me as raindrops, to be honest. More like…”

“Suffering,” he offered. “Always there, at first only in the background, then it takes over the music, and then back in the background. Stops for a moment… right at the end.” His eyes twinkled. “You know what I think? Those seconds of quiet, that’s death.”

She considered it. “It resumes though, after that pause. Gone for a moment, and then back until it fades at the end.”

“It does,” Lucio agreed. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Food for thought,” Amelie mused. “I recall others… the Moonlight Sonata. The Toccata and Fugue.”

“All very melancholic,” he pointed out. “Were you happy, back then? Before, you know… all of this.”

She hesitated, because she didn’t feel under any obligation to tell him something so personal, but mostly because it was a good question and one whose answer she did not know. She tapped her fingers against the armchair, mentally playing the repetitive tune of the sonata.

Lucio didn’t seem discouraged by her lack of a reply. He gave her time to think, which she appreciated. She recalled the pleasant feeling of the heavy keys against her muscles, her fingers flying over a piano to extract the mourning tunes she was fond of.

“I would like to play again,” she admitted after a while.

He gave her a look of complicity. “Do you think that would make for… better therapy sessions?  Because, you know, if you think so, it could probably be arranged. Musical therapy has proven positive results.”

_I like this kid._

“Oh, _definitely_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Lucio has requested me some… material for your therapy,” Angela began after they were done with the usual physical examination. “I’m happy you’re making progress, Amelie, and I would like to apologize… for my behavior. It was out of line.”

With a fresh new collection of dark rings under her eyes, Doctor Ziegler looked exhausted. Amelie wondered to what point that state was due to her own case.

“I liked it,” she admitted.

“I – what?” the blonde frowned, confused.

The French shrugged. “It was genuine. Heartfelt. Didn’t feel like you were just playing nice for a patient.”

Angela leaned against the stretcher, tilting her head. “Do you believe I play nice for you?”

“I believe you’ve been playing nice for so long, it has become who you are,” she replied. “I hate it. It is _so fucking condescending_.”

The other crossed her arms over her chest, lips twitching in an amused smirk. “Well, have you considered the possibility that maybe I just am… this arrogant and fucking condescending?”

“That is honestly the best case scenario.”

Angela arched an eyebrow at her. “Worst case being?”

“You’re a pushover.”

Taking a step ahead, the blonde locked eyes with her and grabbed her by the shoulders, fingers digging just enough to hurt her too sensitive skin. “ _Fuck you_ , Lacroix.”

“This is surprisingly hot,” Amelie said, taking her inappropriate behavior to a whole new level. “Please do.”

She had the joy of seeing the doctor’s eyes widen and her cheeks flush just before the other let go of her and took a step back, muttering curses in German under her breath. That, too, she found unexpectedly arousing. And then of course she had the lovely realization that while insulting the medic had seemingly lost its effect, flirting was as successful as ever in throwing the woman off her cool.

She cackled.

 

* * *

 

Her fingers hit the keys with the same precision her shots hit their targets. ‘Air on the G string’ was, as the name said it, a tune meant for strings rather than piano, and so Lucio followed the music with the violin next to her. He let her lead the rhythm, and she played it slightly slower than the sheets told her to.

The arrangement was beautiful.

“Gerard wasn’t a good husband,” she admitted after the last note had finished ringing. “Before my capture, I was considering divorce.”

Lucio answered with silence, and she closed her eyes and hit the keys once more. This time, she played a nocturne. Ninth opus, number one. The second piece of that work was much more popular, but the first felt way sadder. Needless to say, the latter was her favorite.

It didn’t have any orchestral sheets to go with, but the man made something up anyway, and it wasn’t half bad.

“He wasn’t violent or anything,” she continued as they played. The tune was familiar. She didn’t even need to look at the keys. “Just… absent. Away more often than not. Not very caring when he was present.”

“Whoever said neglect isn’t violence of a kind?” Lucio questioned.

She missed a key.

“Mmmh.”  Amelie closed her eyes, but kept on playing. “His work consumed him. It was to me he was married, yet Overwatch became his lover. I hated the organization for it.”

“Did you hate him?”

“I hated feeling unloved. I hated feeling unwanted.” Amelie abruptly switched tunes, and now her fingers hit the keys for Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor – dark and heavy. “But I loved him. His death was unfortunate, and by my hands as well… or so I’ve been told.”

“You don’t remember?”

Her fingers froze, and the room was enveloped in oppressive silence. “I don’t feel ready to talk about this yet.”

“Of course.” He closed his eyes and began a cheerful tune on the violin. She recognized it instantly as Vivaldi’s _Spring_.

Amelie scoffed. The Allegro was too, well, _happy_ for her liking. She picked it up regardless, adding energetic piano notes that went beyond the sheets and carried a bit of her own flair.

It wasn’t really of her taste, but she recognized the merit of it – she did feel a little bit lighter when they were done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Buttons, what's up with the frenetic updating? Don't you have anything to do?"  
> Holidays, bitches
> 
> Gather round, nerds, and let's talk about this one.
> 
> \- About Widowmaker's newfound touch sense: those of you who unlike me live in areas where you actually have winter know better than most that cold can be numbing. Can you imagine spending years like that, and then having full blown skin sensitivity returned? 
> 
> \- The brain stuff. Well first things first I'd like to say I really, really hate brains. Controversially, I really love psychiatry. When exploring Widowmaker's absence of emotions, there's two ways we can go - the organic, neurological one, aka "something was done to her brain on a physical level" and the psychiatric one, aka "something was done to her mind on a functional level". Obviously I chose the area I like more. All the better for you guys who wont have to hear about brain gyri .
> 
> \- That much said, I did go a little into brains there, when talking about the facial nerve nuclei, so quick overview: the facial nerve is the one responsible for the control of the expression muscles. It runs from its nucleus, inside the brain, to the muscles themselves. True emotions run a different pathway from deliberate muscle control. Often, a stroke may damage the conscious movement part, but the other pathway remains intact, and so you have someone who can't move the face on will but can express actual emotion. Real crazy shit. We call this a "central seven", because the facial is the seventh nerve;
> 
> \- There's no such thing as a "reverse central seven", not that I found, and I made that up on the go;
> 
> \- I texted one of the bosses of the neurology league about this at like midnight, and after long minutes of debate, he went "this is not for an actual patient, is it? you're writing a story." Glad he knows me x)
> 
> \- A lot of Angela's kind personality, calm and attentiveness is by-the-book 'doctor-patient' relationship. Amelie sees right through that and is determined to rip that mask off. She likes spontaneity in her relations.
> 
> \- Angela is a surgeon and surgeons aren't usually big fans of psychiatry. As soon as she realizes she can't cut and sew the problems away, she kind of wants to hop off the boat and leave it to someone more qualified. Sadly for her, Amelie is having none of that.
> 
> \- Lucio is studying for a psychology degree fight me 
> 
> \- He's a musical genius who can pretty much anything, though he prefers his techno beats.
> 
> \- He knows classical music, of course he knows classical music, and that is the source of his indignation when Reinhardt goes "you should learn about the classics, those were real music", because _he knows_
> 
> \- Musical therapy is a legit thing and it helps so much;
> 
> \- I had to research classical music for this one, I hope you biology nerds are music nerds too
> 
> \- Next chapter we're diving really deep in the murky waters of psychiatry.


	4. Hearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x [Danse Macabre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZBf9kIhuLI)  
> x [Bolero](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxZOrefeGLE)  
> x [In the Hall of the Mountain King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7zcS8yr33Q)  
> x [Canon in C](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trNolL4i6hw)/[ Canon in D](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PFpgXym4T8). The difference is very subtle.  
> x [Cohen's Scherzo no.7](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRl4-CKtSzI)  
> x [ Ode to Joy, 'how do I piano' version ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDdl3xBR2iA)  
> x [ Moonlight Sonata, 3rd movement - Presto Agitato ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zucBfXpCA6s)

There was a reason Amelie didn’t have a mirror in her room.

The woman stared at her reflection, amber eyes glaring back at her. Her skin, no longer blue, still lacked the healthy pink shades it used to have in a distant past. She touched her own cheek, watching with mild horror as the image in the mirror did the same.

 _Who are you?_  

To say she didn’t know wasn’t precisely right; if asked, she could tell anyone she was Amelie Lacroix, age 35, formerly known as Widowmaker. If asked, she could tell anyone she was born in Annecy, France, and got married at the tender age of 20. If asked, she could tell a lot of things, and none would raise suspicion that something might be wrong with her mind.

And yet, when she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t quite recognize that person. And yet, when she looked at herself, she felt as if she was watching someone else in a movie.

_Am I real?_

She closed her eyes and repeated her own name over and over until the word ceased to make sense.

 

* * *

 

“Think about something really great,” Lucio said, his hands rhythmically fingering his guitar’s strings. “A good memory, the best you can recall.”

“I –” she hesitated, her fingers hovering over the piano keys.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he reassured.  “I just want you to think about it.”

She didn’t want to. Not because she didn’t have any good memories – not even Talon could rip those for her – but because trying to actually remember them was deeply anguishing. She hit the D key a dozen times – the twelve strokes of midnight –before starting a haunting tune.

“Danse Macabre,” Lucio nodded, playing the high notes on his own instrument.

 “I can’t. Things seem…scrambled up.”

 “How so?”

Amelie took a deep breath and sped up her playing. “It’s like this: I’m standing in an altar next to Gerard. We’re about to get married. The lights around are beautiful, I chose them all myself. I’m happy, really am, and I can tell he is too, with the way he beams at me. I’m holding a bouquet of flowers and I’m dressing –”

_Or was it the other way round?_

“ – a black suit and a red tie.” She smiled, humorless. The music, purposefully dissonant, got even more frantic. “My beard is shaved and my hair is trimmed short and combed. I like the wedding dress – it’s black and white. The priest walks up to the altar and I can see –”

_Or was it the other way round?_

Amelie closed her eyes. The alternations in her memory were in time with the beginning of each new loop in the music.

“I can see the marrying couple, smiling at each other as they kneel to take their vows. The wooden chair is a little bit uncomfortable but that’s okay. The weather is a bit chilly and I wonder if it’ll get colder –”

_Or was it the other way round?_

“ – but that’s okay, because the robes I’m wearing are warm and I know we’ll go inside soon, once I’m done reading the words from the bible.”

She opened her eyes and held Lucio’s gaze. “And of course I know it wasn’t that way. I wasn’t Gerard, or the priest, or one of the sitting guests. I was me all the time, and if you ask me about that day, I’ll tell you the right answers. But that’s how it feels, like – like this body is just a vessel. Like I’m floating and shapeless.”

She finished the music but didn’t stop playing, following the last notes with the beginning of Ravel’s _Bolero_. Lucio tilted his head at her choice, but didn’t question it. For a moment, her piano produced the only sounds in the room, until she grew comfortable to speak again.

“The interesting bit is, it wasn’t like that when I lived it,” she began. “I was myself then, before my memory got fucked up. I’ve always been…aloof. Detached, if you will. But only after Talon…” the words died on her throat. Amelie played the bolero. It went round and round, a tune that sounded as trapped as she felt.

“It’s not a consistent thing. Sometimes I’m someone else even though I know I’m me. And emotions, they – sometimes they’re there, but they never feel like my own. Sometimes it’s the world that seems wrapped and unreal, and sometimes time itself – I can lose track of it.”

 _Music helps,_ she realized right then, because music and time were intimately tied. Not the Bolero, though. That one, she could play for five minutes or twenty or forever.

“I know, in my rational mind, that all is normal with my senses.” She babbled. “It just _feels_ so off, I – I thought they did something to my brain, but Ziegler seems to believe otherwise.”

Amelie slowed down before finishing the music, dragging it out a little bit longer. She stared at the keys and wondered what to play next.

“Grieg,” Lucio suggested. “In the Hall of the Mountain King. Alternatively, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, if that’s not too cheery.”

“Ack. Wedding music. I’ve always liked it better in C.” She was pleasantly surprised at his ability to identify the vibe she was going for. “Grieg it is. There’s something else…” she trailed off, and then paused to give it thought, because she wanted to have it out before she resumed playing.

The man began strumming on the guitar. Amelie licked her lips.

“I always see myself through the other’s eyes…right before I kill.”

 

* * *

 

 

“From what I gather, it seems to be a Depersonalization and Derealization issue,” Angela explained. Her face displayed undisguised anguish. “I’m…very out of my element here, but I think… there are some things I’d like to try, even if I can’t help you as much as I’d like.” She sighed and looked out of the window.

“Something nagging at you?” Amelie queried, because it was evident.

“Psychiatrists and surgeons often don’t get along. There’s a reason for that.” The blonde exhaled. “The afflictions of the mind are… complicated in a way I dislike. They tend to drag on for years, their diagnosis imprecise and treatment even more so. My line of work feels a bit more…rewarding, if you will.  You cut, you sew, you stabilize, you fix, and as hard as it may be, at the end of the day, that person is good to go. Cured.”

“Or dead,” Amelie pointed out.

“Or dead,” the doctor agreed. “Despite how hard I work against that. Still, ‘cured’ is not a word very often heard in psychiatry. You get a lot of ‘controlled’ or ‘in remissions’,” she made air quotes at the terms. “But that doesn’t quite give me the same restful nights of sleep as I get with an ‘appendix successfully removed.’ I really feel you could be in better hands.”

“I digress,” she replied, propping her feet up on the doctor’s table. “Your uncertainty will keep you alert in a way someone experienced wouldn’t be. And I’m unique and special,” she winked. “I love the attention. You’re competent, you’ll do.”

Angela scoffed. “All right, so… I’ll run the plan of action through with you, yes?”

The sniper shrugged and motioned for the other to carry on.

“For starters, Talon had you on mCPP, and this, it definitely has to go. From them on though, it’s all grasping at straws.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring. You’ll have to explain a little bit better than that if you want me to agree.”

The blonde tapped her fingers on the desk. “You’ve described me symptoms that seem to be dissociative, and we know those are linked with anxiety. Detachment is a means your mind has of protecting itself against… unbearable feelings.” She paused for thought. “And mCPP is a drug which induces precisely that – panic crisis and dissociation. So I’m taking that out.”

“Why was that thing even invented on first place?”

“…research,” Mercy replied. “Also used in the streets as a substitute for ecstasy. Point being, once it’s lifted, well, that’s when things get complicated. You may or may not improve your depersonalization, but if you don’t after a while, I’ll start you on Naloxone.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Amelie racked her brain for information, but it didn’t come.

“You might have, when you helped out on shelters. It prevents overdose from opiates like morphine or heroin,” Angela supplied. “The mechanism in which it may help you is similar. But, Amelie,” she took a deep breath. “It’s going to be…rough. The feelings dissociation shields you against will come knocking, and you may experience…panic crisis. Post-traumatic stress. Grief. Anxiety and depression… among others. If that happens, I’ll do the best I can. Clonazepam at first, to yank you out of acute situations. Antidepressants might be necessary, but I haven’t decided which yet.  Venlafaxine or Escitalopram, perhaps Mirtazapine.”

“Meaning it’s going to be shit,” she pinpointed.

The doctor replied with a tense half smile. “It is. And you’ll have to… really work it out with Lucio. Dissociation’s main treatment remains therapy, all medication I can give you is merely auxiliary.” The other ran a hand through her fine blonde hair. “So, do you want to do it?”

“Wait, I have a choice?”

Angela crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes. Moreso than merely patching nerves up on your heart, in this I’ll need your cooperation and determination to make it work. Another thing for me to dislike about psychiatry, I guess.”

Amelie grinned. “Like having complete control, do you?”

The other shot her a sideway glance, her expression dangerous. “You have no idea.”

_Oooh._

“Do I get some time to think about it?”

“As much as you need,” the other replied. “You know where to find me when you’ve decided.”

“Okay, I’ve decided. Let’s do it.”

The blonde blinked. “Umm…”

She shrugged. “You haven’t slipped up on my treatment so far, I see no reason to question it now. I know when to… _yield._ ”

“Right,” Angela muttered under her breath, completely ignoring the innuendo. “No pressure there. None at all.”

“I can offer good stress relief,” the sniper teased, winking.

“I shouldn’t have to put up with this,” the doctor bitched. “It’s not even _my field._ In my field, I get to _sedate you._ ”

_I just love it when you show your claws._

 

* * *

 

Amelie couldn’t breathe.

Memories fragmented or not, she knew Talon had put her through hell. This was worse. It was hell all over again, except inside her head. Nothing hurt, but everything did. Her fingers were sticky with cold sweat and she could feel her heartbeat hammering against her chest – fast, too fast. She felt as if she was going to die right then and there, which would have been fine if only her body could just get it over with.

The sounds were too loud.

The lights were too bright.

The world was _too much_.

She gasped for air, trembling, barely registering she was crying. The crisis had hit her without warning and without triggers; one moment she played tunes on the piano, the next she was curled as a ball on the floor. The music room was always open and she had been alone when it happened.

She found herself thinking, for what had to be the first time in forever, that she wished someone else was around. Lucio, or Angela, heck, even the youngest Amari who clearly didn’t like her would have been better than nothing. Moving was hard – all her muscles were tense. Still, she managed to crawl her way to the corridor.

It was the architect who found her. They had never interacted past the usual ‘good mornings’ before, yet there was always some mutual understanding between the two. She liked Satya’s bluntness and distaste for small talk, and she had a feeling the other appreciated those same traits in her.

Amelie thanked the heavens when the other didn’t shout in alarm, because the _noise_ would have broken her. Instead, Symmetra was impassive as always when she tweaked something in her hardlight projector and suddenly the sniper was floating, lifted in the air by the miracle of technology.  She couldn’t find the voice to protest.

The architect’s room was a bliss of sensory harmony. The colors were whites and blues, the shapes were clean-edged and well defined, white noise played in the background. Her body was still acting as if she was being chased by Satan and all his hellhounds, but her thoughts felt gradually less overwhelmed by the outside.

Gradually more overwhelmed by the inside.

 _I have been hurt,_ her mind told her. It should have been obvious, yet it was staggering. _God, I have been hurt so bad._

She closed her eyes, and there were flashes – of sharp things and blunt things, of hot things and cold things, of painful things and pleasurable things. She felt something tear against her skin – her own nails, she realized vaguely – and yet she couldn’t quite register the physical pain in the middle of an explosion of suffering.

She lost track of time.

“Ame,” someone whispered next to her. She opened her eyes to meet Angela’s baby blues staring back at her.

 _It matches the decoration_ , she thought incoherently.

“Ame,” the other insisted, her voice sounding distant. “I’m going to give you a shot of something to calm you down, okay?”

She tried to answer, but all she could form was a whimper.  She extended her arm instead, briefly taking note that she couldn’t remember when or how she got _nightmare_ tattooed in it.

 _It’s a play on a French proverb,_ her brain helpfully supplied. She wanted to laugh out of sheer hysteria. She saw rather than felt the needle go in.

“I want you to count with me,” Angela whispered. Her tone was steady and firm, so Amelie put all her faith on the thought that the other knew what she was doing. Probably. “Ame? Count with me. Tell me five things you can see.”

“I…” her thoughts scattered. She tried to put them back together to work out the doctor’s simple task. “I see – the walls. White. Clean. I see the table – hard light. The chair, hard light too. I see –” she blinked, hard. “ – you. I see you. Hair looks soft. Rings under blue eyes. Looking tired – always do.”

“Good,” the doctor hushed. “Good job, Amelie. Tell me four things you can hear, now.”

“Humming – it’s the hard light things. They hum.” She caught her breath. “White noise. Steady. I like it. Breathing. My own. Irregular.” She exhaled slowly and made brief eye contact. “Your voice. Not anymore, but… still echoing.” Amelie touched a shaky finger to her own forehead.

“You’re doing great,” Angela praised. “Take a deep breath. Tell me three things you can touch.”

She focused on reassuming control of her limbs, twitching her muscles until she could tell the sensations apart. “The bedsheets. Soft and clean.” She reached out, tangled her fingers on the other’s hair. “Soft,” she repeated, dragging her digits down to brush the blonde’s cheek. “…Warm. Good warm. It used to hurt, but not anymore.”

The doctor did not break eye contact. “Yes. Now two things you can smell.”

Amelie inhaled. “There’s a…” she frowned. “Rain smell…?” She took a deep breath. It was definitely there, though she knew it was artificially generated because they were indoors and it was sunny outside.

“Satya finds it comforting,” Mercy explained.

She closed her eyes and pulled air in again. “And there’s this… lab soap scent. I think that’s you.”

“Hah,” Angela smirked. “Probably. We’re almost done, Ame. Tell me one thing you can taste.”

She licked her own lips and grimaced. “Bitter. I think it’s my own bile.”

“It is. Here, have a glass of water. How do you feel?”

Amelie drunk. “A bit better. A bit more… in the moment. I…” she closed her mouth, feeling dizzy. “It was all very sudden, I – things kept coming back, and –”

Silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

Unexpectedly, Angela reached out, wiping off her cheeks with a thumb. “I’m sorry, Ame. I should have prevented this.”

“You should,” she agreed. “But if you didn’t, I doubt anyone else could have.”

The other grit her teeth and mumbled something in German. She was beating herself over it, Amelie could tell, and oddly enough, she felt a twinge of guilt. It didn’t last long. Mostly, she just felt exhausted and groggy. Her eyes drooped.

The room was anesthetic. She didn’t want to leave.

“What are the odds the architect will fling me out the window if I linger?”

The blonde snorted. “I’ll talk to her about it.”  

“Good. I think I’ll just lay down for a little –” she dropped down on the bed in a manner way less graceful than she had planned.

“You do that,” Angela nodded.

“Wait.” She reached out and grabbed the other’s wrist. It was hard to remain awake but she managed to make eye contact anyway. “Stay?”

The blonde blinked.

 _I just want the medic around if it happens again,_ she thought, but even though she loved antagonizing Angela, voicing it just didn’t feel worth the effort.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Cohen’s Scherzo No.7 was a tune about insanity, and playing it was a nightmare. Her fingers burned and her wrist joint hurt like hell.

“ _Merde,_ ” she muttered when she hit the wrong key for the umpteenth time. She started over from the beginning.

“Presto, presto!” A familiar voice called out behind her, and the break in concentration made her miss again. She halted abruptly, the notes still echoing through the room.

“Fucking presto,” Amelie hissed before turning around to greet her visitor. “I only have ten fingers, I don’t think I could play any faster.”

Sombra laughed, walking over to stand next to her. The Mexican stared at the piano for a couple seconds before hitting fifteen keys in quick succession.

“Ode to joy,” she named. “You’re a natural, Sombra. Drop the hacking and let’s become musicians.”

The Mexican scoffed. “Nah, that’s just the Interface playing for me. Myself, I guess I could improvise a ‘happy birthday to you’ if my life depended on it. You’re looking good, by the way. Considerably less… blue.”

 Amelie rolled her eyes at the pun, and Sombra winked.

“Glad to see they’ve been treating you well. I was worried for a while.”

The sniper shrugged. “Took you long enough to visit, if you’re worried.”

Sombra waved it off. “You were in good hands. I’m not here to bring you back to Talon, by the way, so no worries.”

“Glad we agree on that, since I had no intentions of returning.” She resumed playing her instrument. “Still, that begs the question, _why_ are you here?”

“You know why.”

The sniper scrambled the notes so bad she might as well have tied a knot made of fingers. She chose not to answer to the other’s statement. Sombra placed something on top of the piano – a miniature translocator. The hacker flicked her wrist in the air and the device flashed a bright purple, and then the room was filled with the scent of food.

“I brought you tacos,” the Mexican picked up the teleported paper food bag. “I always wanted you to try those.”

“I’m probably not allowed those,” Amelie pointed out, taking one regardless.

“What Angela doesn’t see, Angela doesn’t lecture.”

“What Angela doesn’t see now she’s likely to see later when it comes off the wrong end as I vomit my guts out,” she corrected, taking a bite.

It was spicy. _Way_ spicy.

“ _Merde, cherie,_ I’m hoping you also brought water.”

Sombra laughed, handing her a bottle. Amelie chugged it down like someone who had been stranded in the desert. “I have waited _years_  to see you make that face.”

She licked the grease off her fingers and turned back to the piano. This time, she played the Moonlight Sonata, third movement. She liked it as much as the first, despite how different they were. Sombra listened. She felt the other hug her from behind and rest a chin on her shoulder.

The touch was different from what she remembered – still electric, but no longer burning.

“You handed me to them,” she muttered, slightly resentful. “You never asked me what I wanted.”

Sombra didn’t break contact. “They would have killed you, sooner or later. And I couldn’t bear to see you… as you were.”

Amelie hit the keys, frantic.

_A fucking presto agitato._

“I would have chosen death,” she admitted.

“Would you still?”

She thought about it for a long moment. “I don’t know.”

Sombra pressed a cheek against hers. “Play me something happy, _querida._ Something hopeful.”

Amelie played Pachelbel’s canon, in C.

 

* * *

 

“It’s nice to see you in something other than a white coat,” Amelie teased the medic. “I have to say you wear it well, Doctor Ziegler.”

Angela adapted fast to any attempts of unsettling her, Amelie had to give her that. Only a couple weeks before, her flirting left the doctor flustered and awkward, and now the other was already… well, flirting back wasn’t quite what she did. Mostly, Ziegler accepted her advances as compliments, in the cockiest and most narcissistic ways conceivable.

The blonde looked up from the restaurant menu and smirked. “Well, with this body, how couldn’t I?”

The sniper scoffed, not discouraged in the least. The sun caught on her cheeks and she spent a couple moments musing on the possibility of getting a tan. “Indeed. Makes one wonder what you can do with it.”

“I was the number one assistant for _human anatomy_ through all six med school years,” Mercy replied in a flat tone. “Just so you know how much knowledge is sitting right here,” she tapped her index finger on her temple.

Amelie crossed her legs at the ankles, grinning. “Someone once said, I think it was Einstein, that _imagination_ is way more important than knowledge.”

“You keep imagining then,” Angela winked. “I’m more of an action kind of gal. Though I did come up with a solution to the thousand-years-old problem of _death._ Makes you wonder how creative I can be, eh?”

The situation was so bizarre, she couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “Why do you even bother playing the nice doctor when you can play the _femme_ so well?”

She turned to the other when she didn’t reply after a couple seconds. The blonde was all but gaping. “Cat got your tongue?”

“You laughed,” Angela stated. “For real. All the way up to the eyes, you laughed. ”

 _Oh_.

“…It was beautiful,” the other finished before Amelie could think of a reply.

The compliment was so blunt and unexpected, she felt heat crawl to her cheeks, and then it was Angela’s turn to laugh.

“Got you!”

_How **dare** –_

“He wants to know if you’re ready to order,” the blonde pointed to the waiter with her chin.

“I’ll have wine and seafood, but don’t tell my physician.”

The other rolled her eyes and repassed her order in Greek. She wondered, not for the first time, just exactly how many languages the doctor could speak.

“Are you sure no one will miss us at the outpost?”

Angela shrugged. “Ana and her team moved to Gibraltar two days ago. The Ilios base is mostly empty, save for us, Lucio and essential personnel.”

“And you chose to stay?”

“I have a patient,” the blonde smiled, an odd twinkle in her eyes. “A pain in the ass patient, but still.”

The waiter returned with their food and – she was surprised to find – her wine. Angela had chosen a white one – Chardonnay, by the taste. She licked her lips, humming. There was something rising at her chest, but she couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Is that all I am?”

“A pain in the ass?” the blonde asked, arching an eyebrow.

“A _patient_ ,” she corrected.

The wind picked up, enjoyably refreshing. Angela looked out to the horizon, glass in hands, still for a while. “I don’t know, Ame. What would you like to be?”

She didn’t have an answer, and so she gave none. The unfamiliar feeling persisted, and she chased after it, trying to name it. Eventually it came to her, and she burst out laughing.

“Share the joke?”

Amelie shook her head, smirking. “It’s nothing, I just… for a moment I feel…”

“Mmm?”

“… _happy._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Whew._ That was one huge sonofabitch. Well, here we go:
> 
> \- In the opening scene we get a really classical scene of depersonalization. That carries on with the rest of the chapter, so I'll go on about dissociative disorders:
> 
> \- A lot of people tend to write Widowmaker as someone with two personalities - Amelie and Widow - and we name that condition "Dissociative Identity Disorder" or DID. 
> 
> \- The thing about DID and the reason I don't think she has that is, a key point of the diagnosis is amnesia. If Amelie had DID and she turns into Widowmaker, then Ame wouldn't remember Widow's actions and vice-versa. 
> 
> \- This is important because we see all the time that Widowmaker clearly remembers both her time as Amelie /and/ her kills. We have a whole short in which she begins talking about when she was a child and afraid of spiders, and ends with how that memory connects with when she feels alive after a kill.
> 
> \- Very often I see fics in which the Widowmaker personality interacts with the Amelie one, literally a voice in her head, and though the intention might be writing two personalities, medically that's much closer to schizophrenia. Which is actually quite a viable diagnosis, though not the one I went with here.
> 
> \- Instead I explain Widowmaker's lack of emotion as a classical case of flat affect, consequence of her trauma that induces a depersonalization/derealization disorder (DPD). A DPD case is hard to write because it is hard to define even in psychiatry. Some degree of derealization is actually normal; you could say a daydream is a dissociative state, for instance. 
> 
> \- What we get with Amelie though is completely pathological, because she suffers with it, and because she dissociates to a point she actually disconnects completely from her body and from the world around her.
> 
> -Treatment to DPD is pretty much therapy; we know very little about drugs for it. 
> 
> \- mCPP is a research drug which kinda became a street drug and it has the effect of inducing panic crisis and dissociation.
> 
> \- Naloxone is a drug which antagonizes opiod drugs, such as as morphine and heroin. Some studies have shown it to be effective as treatment for DPD and the reason why is tricky: derealization is a mechanism of defense against unbearable anxiety and the endorphins involved in it act on the same receptors as the opiod drugs. 
> 
> \- Basically: it's as if Amelie's brain had her on constant, body-produced kiddie heroin, and that makes her aloof all the time. So Naloxone would act against that and "bring her to earth". Obviously, the /reason/ the brain was doing that on first place was the Huge Fucking Trauma™ and that's gonna come back like a wrecking ball.
> 
> \- Clonazepam is an anxiolytic drug from the diazepine class which has shown promising effect on DPD clinical trials. Your good old Klonopin. Diazepines are always tricky drugs to work with - addictive, full of side effects, a pain in the ass really.
> 
> \- Venlafaxine, Escitalopram and Mirtazapine are all antidepressants. We have a certain consensus in modern psychiatry that if you need more than seven days of anxiolytics, then you should probably be moving to antidepressants because those are safer, better tolerated and tend to treat anxiety much better.
> 
> \- And then you have a full fledged panic crisis, which really was expected.
> 
> \- The counting exercise Angela does is called "grounding" and is very useful for anxiety crisis, so you might wanna apply that in real life.
> 
> \- Amelie and Satya have sensory overload in common and Satya's room is actually a pretty peaceful ambient to calm down.
> 
> \- Yes, one of the 'classical' songs in this chapter is from the Bioshock soundtrack, sue me, I'm a nerd
> 
> \- A 'presto' is a musical tempo in which you play the piano that's really fast but not the fastest because there's also the prestíssimo. Both Cohen's Scherzo and the third movement of the moonlight sonata are prestos.
> 
> \- You might be wondering if Amelie and Sombra had a thing going there and the answer would be /yes/.
> 
> \- This was a real information dense chapter and I hope it was okay


	5. Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x[Chopin's Heroic Polonaise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fW0Y3M4EJ4M)  
> x[League of Legends Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PR0JfL64Zi8)  
> x[Grand Valse Brillante](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2r7skqSkNM)  
> x[Bee Gees - Staying Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqzk904ytlE) (the CPR song)  
> x[Vivaldi's Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICKMzK1z-Zo)  
> x[Cheesy Brazilian Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJeH4WQp9wA) (with choreography plz watch)  
> x[Cheesy Brazilian Music 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGViL3CYRwg) (no really picture Lucio)  
> x[Cheesy Brazilian Country Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLjIlUW5HWE)  
> x[Bachianas Brasileiras No5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIGOzLLzIIU)  
> x[Ai se eu te pego](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hcm55lU9knw)

When the door opened to reveal Angela walking into the room, Amelie did not stop playing. The doctor did not interrupt her, instead taking a seat. She hit the keys for Chopin’s _Heroic Polonaise._ The tone was both dramatic and irregular, much to her liking. She’d played it with Lucio and he had arranged a beautiful violin background to it, but she also enjoyed the clear sounds of her lone piano.

When she finished, she found the blonde had her eyes closed. “Chopin?”

“ _Oui,_ ” she nodded. “Polonaise Opus 53.”

“Lucio told me you were a fan,” Angela nodded, standing. She noticed for the first time the other had brought a bottle of wine, and was now pouring herself a glass. “ _Moscato?_ ”

She shook her head. “ _Merci._ Maybe after I’m done playing.”

The blonde walked closer and rested her glass on top of the piano, leaning against the instrument to watch. Amelie eyed the keys for a moment, going through her mental catalog, and then the perfect tune popped up in her mind. She resumed playing, hesitantly at first but quickly picking up the pace.

Recognition flashed on Angela’s eyes and she beamed in a way that made something on the French’s chest tighten.

“That’s the _League of Legends_ theme.”

 Amelie’s lips curled in the slightest of smirks. “Sombra loves it.”

“I _know,_ ” the blonde laughed. “You should join us, you know. You’d make a fine jungler. Although…” she took a sip from her glass, “You look like a sore loser. The type that rage quits.”

“I do _not,_ ” she scoffed.

Angela’s only response was a grin. The French finished the videogame music and went back to her Chopins – this time, she went for the _Grand Valse Brillante._ She wasn’t the greatest waltz appreciator but the tune had a certain charm to it. The blonde stood in perfect silence through the whole song, and when she was done, she saw the doctor had extended her a hand.

Amelie tilted her head at it.

“Athena,” Angela called out. “Initiate playback.”

There was a second of stillness, and then the room’s speakers creaked into life, replaying her performance. Her brain added the pieces together and she stared at Angela’s hand, licking her lips absently.

“Well aren’t you quite the charmer,” she teased, letting herself be pulled up.

The blonde yanked her close in less than delicate manner, a hand flying around the French’s waist. Amelie noted that the Swiss was slightly taller, even when not in heels, and she found the fact that her dance partner looked at her _from above_ mildly irksome. She slid her palm to Angela’s neck, letting her too long nails press against skin enough that she knew it would be uncomfortable.

The other didn’t seem to mind. Amelie let her lead the dance at first, listening to her whispered ‘ _ein, zwei, drei_ ’ before each step. She pressed her forehead against the other’s chin, closing her eyes, the movements coming with ease. She could tell Angela was an amateur by the way her body didn’t quite flow, but she didn’t comment on it, instead waiting for an opportunity –

And then it came, a twist in the music she used to turn the dance around. Her hands moved, taking control of the waltz, and she saw Angela’s eyes widen as she pulled her into a spin.  She sped up, switching from waltz to something else entirely. The blonde didn’t know how to dance beyond those three memorized steps, yet she still _refused to be led._

“Surrender control, _cherie,_ ” she teased.

“Bite me,” Mercy snapped back. Amelie wondered if she was a bit tipsy. Grinning, she pressed her lips to the other’s neck and carefully brushed her teeth against skin.

“You sure?”

She made eye contact. Angela was blushing, but didn’t drop her gaze. She slowly pressed her teeth harder –

_“Playback finished,”_ the speaker announced, and the blonde pulled away.

_Way to kill the fucking mood, asshole AI._

“Play something you can dance,” Amelie provoked, pouring herself a glass of wine. She sipped it.

“Oh, how dare you,” Angela thought for a moment. “Athena, play the CPR song.”

_The what…?_

She blinked when the room was filled with a catchy Bee Gees tune – one that, as it turned out, Angela actually knew how to dance. She rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw the back of her skull, and then she was yanked to the center of the room.

“ _I’m staying aliiiiiive!_ ” the doctor sung.

_Well, why the hell not._

 

* * *

_“Nique ta mere!”_  She hissed, viciously pressing the ‘Q’ button on her keyboard.

“Amélie, get your ass over to the mid lane!” Angela snarled. “ _Scheisse –_ ”

_“Pendejo hijo de la puta madre!”_ Sombra cursed on her end.

The French guided her champion down the jungle to where the doctor’s mummy was, just in time to see Sombra’s Morgana get killed. She hit the attack button but it was too late – the two were swept by the enemy Lux’s ultimate.

“ _Va te faire foutre!_ ” she raged, the mouse flying off her hand and shattering on the wall.

Amélie did not see the fun in the game at all.

 

* * *

 

“Do you ever feel like apologizing?” Lucio asked on a break between songs.

“You mean, to Amari?” She considered it for a moment. “Do you think she would give me less of a hard time if I did?”

“I was thinking more about your own inner peace,” he pointed out.

“I would be more at ease telling her to fuck off,” Amelie smirked. “I mean, I am sorry for the eye, just… not very much?”

“You don’t regret your time at Talon?” he queried. She looked for any signs of him being judgmental but he seemed just plain curious, and that made her more comfortable to talk.

She played an ominous C note at the grave end of the piano. “Regret is a strong word.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to do it again, but it’s undeniably part of me. I just don’t have…” Amelie fumbled for words. “…the energy? To spend with guilt. I’m…feeling things for the first time in years. Seems like a waste to focus on the painful emotions.”

“As a therapist I could not give you better advice,” he mused.

“You mean, ‘be selfish’?”  She played three keys in succession for dramatic effect. “Because the rational part of me knows that’s what it is – pure ego-centrism. Amari _deserves_ an apology, if anything. Even if she did want me executed.”

“Good thing I’m your therapist and not Amari’s,” Lucio pointed out.

She laughed. “You know, that thought actually lifts my mood...give me something appropriate to play that expresses that. Happy but  _a little bit evil._ ”

He thought for a second. “Vivaldi's Winter.”

“Oh, _that,_ ” she grinned. “That's perfect.”

 

* * *

 

She was lying on the couch, feet warm under the covers, vaguely paying attention to the television. The movie was a rerun, and she already knew the plot by heart. Angela on the other hand was watching it for the first time and she seemed not very amused.

“So they fuck,” the blonde muttered. Amelie liked to hear profanity from her mouth. “Of course they fuck. That’s how all French movies go – dark and rainy, and then they fuck, and then someone smokes a cigarette on the balcony.”

She was not _wrong,_ but Amelie would be damned if she’d sit there letting that Swiss criticize her country’s movie tradition. She kicked the other not too gently. “It is _not_.”

“Ow! Dammit,” Angela didn’t kick back, of course she didn’t, she was such a _rug._ Abruptly, she sat up straighter. “There!!” she pointed to the screen. “The _fucking cigarette!!!_ On the balcony!! What did I tell you?!”

Amélie couldn’t resist a smile.  The irony of emotions showing on her face beyond her control didn’t escape her. “Your oversimplification of my culture is highly offensive, _cherie_.”

Angela squinted at her. “You gave me _cheese_ as a gift. _French_ cheese, not even Swiss cheese. How is _that_ not offensive?”

“Excuse me,” She laughed. “Brie cheese is _good_ cheese. You should be irked at Genji’s Walmart chocolates.”

The blonde pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Let’s. Not go there.” She stretched. “We should watch something actually decent. Like Alien Versus Predator, or Godzilla.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she muttered.

"I think Winston has the whole Planet of the Apes collection on 4k resolution,” Angela continued, ignoring her protests. “Didn’t Hana do a movie with Mechas and giant omnics? We should watch that. Athena, do we have ‘Hero of my Storm’ in our catalogue?”

“ _Non,_ ” Amelie hissed.

“ _Movie found. Initiate playback?_ ”

“No!!!”

“YES!”

 

* * *

 

 

When she arrived twenty minutes early for her daily therapy session, she found Lucio frantically dancing to a song blaring on the speakers.

“What,” she began, grasping for words. “Is this _atrocity?_ ”

_Is he sexy dancing_

“Rio de Janeiro funk,” he said, not stopping his movements. The beat was catchy, she had to give it that. Lucio pointed at her, made eye contact and did a hip thrust.

“Uh, _no,_ ” Amelie winced dramatically, albeit with a grin. He was clearly having fun and it was amusing to watch. The music ended and was immediately followed by one with similar rhythm. “Oh my god,” her smile widened. “It’s a _playlist?”_

“Oh yes,” he walked the walked across the room, swinging his hips, then crouched and slowly stood, shaking his butt in the process.

It was too ridiculous. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening, and then picked up the tune on the piano. It consisted of no more than six notes in repetition. She followed the song with a single hand.

“What is she even saying?” she queried, because Portuguese and French had some similarities but not enough that she could tell what the words meant.

“I’m glad you asked,” Lucio exclaimed. “It’s actually very lyric rich!”

_“Pre-pa-ra que agora é hora do show das poderosas –”_

“It’s kind of hard to translate,” he thought about it. “Something like ‘be ready for the powerful women show’.”

“Absolutely poetical,” Amelie deadpanned. “And what is _this_ ,” she muttered when the song changed. The next on the playlist had way less electronic beats and more acoustic guitars. “That’s not the same rhythm.”

“Oh, oh! It’s country.”  He switched to a more fitting choreography.

“What’s he saying?”

“I treat them all the same, that’s my flaw. I am dating everyone,” Lucio decoded. “Ninety-nine per cent an angel, but that one percent is a _slut_.”

_An angel, huh_

She gave the tune a shot. It took her a couple attempts before she got the keys right and picked up the pace. “…do you think Ziegler speaks Portuguese?”

“Spanish, for sure,” he answered. “Portuguese, maybe. They’re similar enough that she should have some level of understanding. Why?”

“No reason,” Amelie deflected. “…Have it sent to my comm, please?”

“Uh, sure –”

“And put something decent on. Doesn’t Brazil have anything more… _classical?_ ”

Lucio’s expression got brighter. “We do, actually! You’d like Villa-Lobos, he did some work in homage to Bach. Athena, please play _Bachianas Brazileiras No.5._ ”

She listened for a moment before deciding that it wasn’t at all bad. The sheets blinked into life on the monitor over the piano so she could follow.

“I haven’t had a panic for a while now,” she muttered absently.

That perked the man’s attention.  “Are you ready to talk about that?”

She exhaled. “I think so… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? To talk about it when it’s all but over. Don’t say anything, I know you’ll disagree.” She scoffed. “You know what the real tipping point was? When I realized I was afraid of _fear_.”

“Of fear?” he echoed.

“Mmhm.” She missed a couple keys of the song, because it was new to her. “When I caught myself thinking that I didn’t want to go out because what if I had a crisis. And you know what, I did _not,_ ” she slammed her fingers a bit too hard on the piano, “I did not go through all my hell to let that stop me. So just fuck it. I’ll go through my day whatever it takes and if that means I drop down choking like a fish out of water then _so be it_.”

Lucio leaned forward, hands folded on his lap. “Your willpower is nothing short of amazing – but we knew that from the start, didn’t we?”

Amelie shrugged. “I’m making it sound easier than it is. The medication helps. Music, too, and this – talking.” She smiled, humorless. “Even though to be fair I hate that last bit.” The sniper paused. “Can you put the shitty country song again?”

“Of course! Do you want to learn the choreography?” He slapped his own butt and winked.

“It’s vulgar and absurd,” Amelie arched an eyebrow. “I dance ballet. I dance waltz and some tango. I do _not_ dance… _Zumba?_ ”

“Axé,” he supplied. “But do you _want_ to learn? Because you look like deep down you do.”

 “Used to be I had to remind myself to show emotion. Smile when happy. Scowl when angry,” She smirked. “It’s become automatic. Now sometimes they escape and show my _deepest, darkest desires_.”

Lucio laughed and snapped his fingers. “Starting with the classics. Athena, _“Ai se eu te pego”,_ please.”

“ _Ai se…?_ ” she tried.

“Oh, if I catch you,” he translated with a wink and extended her a hand.

_What am I doing with my life_

She hesitated for two seconds before taking it.

 

* * *

 

She kicked the stereo not too gently and it blared into life. Then, she waited. Half a minute later, the lab door swung open, revealing a very baffled Angela. The blonde frowned and took in the situation. Amelie could almost see the wheels in her brain turn.

“Are you… _serenading me?_ ”

Her face was priceless.

“You are, aren’t you,” the doctor blinked. “You are serenading me with… what is _that_. Do you even know what he’s saying, because it’s not at all romantic.”

“ _Oui._ ”

“You do realize this is literally a song about being a manwhore,” Angela continued. “Because… what are you even trying to imply with this? Who’s the _Don Juan_ here, me or you?”

Amelie performed a dance move she refused to describe even to herself, and then winked. It answered the question Angela had asked, and then a thousand others she hadn’t.

“Oh _mein gott,_ ” the blonde covered her gaping mouth with her hand. “ _What_. What is Lucio doing with you?!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I thought the French were supposed to be romantics. Where are my roses and Swiss chocolates?”

She silenced the stereo with her boot. “Weren’t you paying attention to the damn song? I treat them all the same and I can’t afford Swiss chocolates for everyone.”

Angela smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, stepping closer. Amelie felt her heart hitch, a thrilling sensation she hadn’t experienced in a long time. “I heard there are three things France does really well,” the doctor whispered in her ear. “Wines, cheese and lovers.”

“Four,” she corrected. “Don’t forget about the movies.”

“The movies are shit,” the other snapped. “I hope the lovers are better quality.”

She placed a hand on Angela’s waist. “Want to find out?”

Mercy scoffed. “Do you really want to do this? Because you know you’ll need another doctor, right? And I’m the only one who went to medical school, and the others with some sort of training are Ana and Zenyatta. The woman you shot and the omnic whose master… you know.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she summarized. “It’s not like I need constant medical attention or anything.”

“Think about it,” Angela said, taking a step back. “You said it yourself you don’t like white coats, and I can’t be your physician and your hookup at the same time.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Truly?”

The other shrugged. “If you were just someone whose broken bones I fixed every now and then it wouldn’t be a big deal, but I’m acting as your goddamn _psychiatrist._ No fraternizing.”

Amelie sighed. “I’ll consider whether your pretty face is worth the inconvenience.”

The blonde leaned in one more time and whispered, “ _Ich bin so schlecht im Bett, das musst du erlebt haben._ ”

And she stepped back into the lab, not before grabbing the stereo with the sniper’s bad Brazilian music playlist. She blinked, her German rusty enough that she doubted whether she’d understood the sentence right.

_‘I’m so bad in bed, you need to experience it.’_

* * *

 

 

"Do you ever think about getting back in action?"

"I doubt they'd trust me to."Amelie sighed, wondering. "But no. I don't think it's something I'd want... killing again. For good or bad, I think I've done my part, and I'm through. I'd like to...give myself a chance to live from now on. Make up for all the robbed time at Talon."

"Robbed, but from what I gather, not wasted?"

"Not wasted."Amelie smirked at his perceptiveness."Not when it has made me who I am. It was... _numb,_ most times. Sombra used to help me pull through,” She said, staring at a wall. “When things got really difficult, and they often did. She’s an optimist, in her own weird way – she always believed it’d end up well.”

There was no music that day, only words. She tapped her fingers against the arm of her seat.

“How do you feel about that?” Lucio pressed when she offered no more information.

“Do you have a vow of secrecy or will your bosses hear about what I tell you?”

“Of course they won’t,” he reassured. “The most I share is when I tell Angela you might need adjustments on your meds.”

“Good.” She half smiled. “We keep in contact. We play that stupid online game of hers every now and then – she, Angela and I. If there’s something I miss about Talon days, it’s her antics. She always did whatever she wanted, really. Saying she worked for anyone would be a stretch.”

“Do you think she was right?” he queried. “About things being well in the end.”

“Things have definitely gotten…better.” She shrugged.  “She never bullshited me… well at least not on that aspect.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t say ‘things are going to be okay’,” Amelie smiled, crossing her legs at the ankles. “She said ‘Ame you’re one badass bitch and everything will end up well cause you’ll make it work’.”

 

* * *

 

She sat on the stretcher, impatiently waiting as Ziegler went through with the physical examination. The doctor’s hands pressed the same familiar spots – under the jaw, under the chin, above and below the collarbone. Angela had her eyes closed. Three years of that same routine and the other _still refused to look_.

“Why don’t you look at me?” she couldn’t hold the question any longer.

Mercy’s eyes snapped open and she frowned. “Huh?”

“You close your eyes when you’re… feeling for the whatevers –”

“Lymph nodes,” the doctor supplied for the umpteenth time.

“ – Whatever. Why? I have a gorgeous face. It’s offensive.”

Angela tilted her head, amused. “I do it so I can feel the nodes better.”

“How’s closing your eyes going to make your tact better?”

The blonde slid her fingers to Amelie’s nape and pressed, holding eye contact. “It’s just a matter of sensory input. I focus better on one sense when I remove information from others.” Her thumb brushed on the sniper’s jawline, tracing its shape, an evil smirk on her face. “What, you mean you don’t close your eyes when you kiss?”

It was the last straw.

She didn’t give any warnings when she moved in to catch Angela’s lips with her own, holding the other’s head in place with her hands. Her position on top of the stretcher meant she had the higher ground. She wasn’t gentle – neither with her nails on the blonde’s skin, nor with her teeth on the woman’s lips.

Angela’s whimpers made heat coil on her abdomen.

She pulled back to catch some air and admire the results of her work in the shape of a fine blush on the doctor’s cheek, letting her palms slide down the other’s neck and shoulder until they reached the arms.

“Oh woe is me,” Angela whispered, breathless. “Looks like I can no longer be your physician, Ms. Lacroix. What a _pity_.”

“Was this all an elaborate ploy to get yourself out of shrink duty?” she leaned in again, brushing her lips against the other’s throat.

“Woe is me,” she repeated, shivering when Amelie’s tongue met skin. “My vile plot exposed.”

She bit. Angela exhaled. The doctor tapped something on her wrist, and she heard the room’s door slide shut.

“You know what,” the blonde snarled, shaking herself free of the lab coat.

“Mmm?” Her hands were having tons of fun exploring _._

“I’m fucking overworked,” the other hissed, yanking her down the stretcher by the collar _and woah isn’t that delightfully aggressive,_ “It’s about damn time they hired another doctor anyway.”

She laughed, but had a hard time trying to form a coherent reply. That Angela still seemed capable of speech was an annoyance she soon intended to fix –

“Now close your eyes, Ame,” the Swiss commanded, running her thumbs over Amelie’s eyelids.  “Close your eyes, and you’ll see what I mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[Atutcha](http://atutcha.tumblr.com/) made me [ some art](http://atutcha.tumblr.com/post/156938764103/mercymaker-based-on-sensory-input-by-buttons15) for this story and IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL I COULD CRY AND YOU SHOULD CHECK IT OUT**
> 
> Thank you all for following me along until this very last chapter!  
> There's considerably less science and more fluff on this one, I hope you guys don't mind and I didn't disappoint, but still here goes:  
> \- Blizzard can pry nerd Mercy from my cold dead fingers  
> \- We use Bee Gees' staying alive as soundtrack for CPR practices. That's cause the song's beat, around 100 per minute, is precisely on the rhythm you need to do the chest compression. The irony of course is trying to reanimate someone to the sounds of "You're staying aliiiiiiiive"  
> \- Widowmaker is a ragequitter  
> \- French movies are very cultural but Mercy is into B movies and _you can pry nerd mercy from my cold, dead -_  
>  \- Yes I'm salty over the chocolates  
> \- Brazilian music. This was a challenge. There is such thing as classical brazilian music, and good quality songs. But I'd like to think that while Lucio knows those, what he really enjoys are the summer hits that are honestly trashy in purely musical standards, but which are inherently fun. Lucio digs cheesy brazilian music because it's catchy and cool to dance to, and it's part of his culture. Still, he definitely knows more elaborate national musicians.  
> \- Having fear of fear is a core trait in panic disorders and definitely one of the roughest experiences patients go through. One may develop what we call disadaptive behavior: avoiding things in fear they'll trigger crisis to the point that the individual can no longer lead a normal life. Beyond that, the cruelest aspect of panic in my opinion is that the fear of having a crisis by itself _may trigger a crisis_ , causing an endless loop that is so very hard to break.  
> \- Medication and therapy are key there, and because I focused on medication last chapter, I tried to focus on therapy here. It was hard to write because the way I see Amelie as a character, she'd be the type to avoid talking about a situation until she feels she's figured it out. That leads to like, fifty sessions of therapy in which nothing very relevant is said and then _one_ session in which she tries to deal with twenty years of emotional backlog in twenty minutes.  
>  \- Don Juan is a cultural synonym to "womanizer", which I think is the image Amelie would try to convey  
> \- I feel like Angela and Amelie would not be gentle lovers at all  
> \- _and there's your damn ship sailing_


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